


Life's a tapestry

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 22:43:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20366329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: Fragments of the past, lingering in the present, following to the future.





	Life's a tapestry

**Author's Note:**

> **Big bold reminder that I don't own Dragon Age or any of its content.** I merely play in the sandbox Bioware created.
> 
> So this came about after I bought a book of 101 flash fiction prompts. And while I definitely missed the "keep each story to 2 sentences" rule, I'm happy with how this turned out. When inspiration hits, you just gotta write, nevermind the rules or the word count.
> 
> **Edit as of 28/09/19:** an anon over on tumblr raised that what I'd originally written for Aveline was in direct conflict with canon, so I've rewritten that part.

**Varric**

_“One can never go wrong with a pouch of pebbles.”_ That’s what his mother claimed and, watching a would-be thief make off with the pouch from his belt and not, say, the one tucked tight and secure between Bianca’s stock and his back, he still can’t find fault in her statement. Very few folk have successfully separated him from his hard-earned coin.

**Isabela**

_“A pretty face won’t pay your way in life,” _her mother used to say, her smile a beautiful thing despite the hardships of poverty, sitting her down and going on and on about how to be good with her hands, how to be _useful_. She’s good with them now, sharp eyes and quick fingers not for weaving or embroidery but for thievery and cheating, blood red lips and practiced smile a distraction from unguarded coin, the cards, the drink. A pretty face can’t pay her way, no, but it can buy her _time._

**Aveline**

He named her for strength and bravery, for courage and cunning, to stand tall in the face of opposition. He wanted more for her than pretty dresses and delicate hands, extravagant balls and evening tea in manicured gardens. Her turn to bring honour and awe to the name, a chance at elevating their status, dust on the wind when she settled for something else and chose her own path instead. Her goal to protect others, friends and family and city people, burning down round her ears as the Qunari advance through the streets. _Would you still be proud of me, father, knowing I’ve failed?_

**Fenris**

_“The world isn’t all bad. Take joy in the little things, no-one can take that from you.” _He can’t recall which fool said that to him, just as he can’t remember his mother’s eyes or the colour of her hair or the shape of her smile, the childhood stolen in a storm of agony and lyrium brands. And yet... there is a wisdom to those words he cannot deny as he settles on the Chantry steps and sinks his teeth into a green apple, such a satisfying crunch and burst of flavour. This is _his_, this taste, the juice he catches as it runs down his chin, licks from his finger with something of a _challenge_ in the smirk he throws at the tutting humans drawing him dirty looks as they pass him by. All _his_, and they cannot rob him of it.

**Anders**

_“Grieve the ones you lose, but focus on those you can save.” _He tries, he tries _so damn hard_, but it’s never enough. The Maker gives and the Maker takes and the Maker can go fuck Himself on Meredith’s sword for all he cares. How many patients does he lose to starvation when he saves them from illness and injury and grants them brief rest in the buckling cots tucked away in his clinic? How many mages are lost to Tranquility for every one he sneaks out of Kirkwall? How many lives end at the hands of the corruption slowly throttling the city? How can he focus on the living, when their homes are built on the bones and blood of the dead?

**Sebastian**

_“You are a disgrace to this family and our bloodline!”_ Such vitriol in her voice, words like poison, the finger jabbed in his direction more fatal than any blade. Cowed, head low, down on one knee and shamed by her fury, his last verbal exchange with her and _oh_ how he regrets that. So many regrets, curdling his stomach and locking iron clamps ‘round his heart and he reaches up to touch the locket, all that remains of her, a weight and brand upon his neck. A reminder of what he’s lost. So many times he could have written a letter, every day since his departure, every night by the candle, all gone and wasted. _Do you hate me, still, mother? Do you hate me more now than ever, knowing I am the last to carry our name?_

**Merrill**

_"Just think of all the stories you’ll have to tell us when next we meet!” _What stories will she have to tell? The years she spent feared and shunned in her new clan, an outcast among her own people? Being backed into a corner with no way out except to leave the only life she’d ever known “for her own good”? The first few years spent in a hostile city with vile humans who would sooner cut off her ears and spit in her face than see her wandering the same streets as them? Should she tell them of her efforts to reconnect with lost history, to _learn _about their past, only to be branded a fool and a danger? Or should she tell them of her chosen friends, of all Kirkwall’s little charms and quirks and the laughter of the Alienage’s children? Should she tell them of the safety she offered those touched by magic as she is, her house a safe harbour until they could board ship and flee? Should she tell them she put her _freakish ways_ to good use and stood tall against a flood of Templars with spells at her fingertips and city elves by her side, the able-bodied holding a line with her to keep such slaughter from spilling into _her_ part of the city, into _her _people, _her _clan? Should she track them down and bring them to Kirkwall and show them this scarred and broken place and say “this is the soil in which I’m rooted, this is my home, this is my family, listen to _their _story”?


End file.
